When I say that I am so glad January is over - I really, really mean it. Like really. Because this January, ladies and gentlemen, I somehow managed to survive a full 31 days without eating a single piece of chocolate. Not a chocolate chip cookie, not a powdered hot chocolate, not even the single smartie that fell out of my drawer and rolled, teasingly, around my bedroom floor. I repeat - no chocolate whatsoever. And that's not even the impressive part, oooh no. I managed to do this...

If this trip to Berlin had a tag line it would be this; "So...um...bratwurst?"And I'm talking at 8am in the morning, at 11pm at night, after having dinner, before having breakfast, on the worst hangover of my life, inbetween eating other bratwursts...the list goes on (and on and on and on). If I had to make a guess at the sheer distance of sausage we managed to consume over the course of four days in Berlin, I'd have to pop the figure at approx 98km. No exageration. Yet, somehow I didn't manage to take one photo of the thing at any point of our holiday which I can only say is a sheer testament to my tunnel-visioned-bratwurst-eating devotion. So instead, you'll just have to look at some #architectureporn. Which I know is not as good as #bratwurstporn, I'M SORRY.

As much as I’ve tried to deny the cold hard facts…I’m finally ready to admit that there really is such a thing as too-much-mulled-wine. Even when you're on holiday in Berlin. A gluhwein hangover creeps up on you in a similar fashion to how I imagine the Berlin wall did all those years ago: you wake up with very limited movement capabilities and a sense of pretty serious impending doom. Whether or not the Berliner’s also had a banging headache, severe amnesia and the alcohol shakes is anybody’s guess.